The White Tiger's Cloak
by Erameline
Summary: ALW POTO. A young girl named Abigail travels to the Paris Opera under influence of a mysterious invitation. She runs into a young Erik and can't wait for more. The ensuing adventures in music and love will leave your senses reeling.


_Preface:_

_This story is based on ALW's Phantom, so please do not give me grief about the golden eyes or the missing nose. Yes, I have read both the Leroux and Kay novels, and I chose to model my Phantom after my favorite-- ALW's. Also, this story isn't finished yet. I will be updating periodically, so if you like it, feel free to subscribe or whatever it is they do here. :_

* * *

"Can you tighten that a little bit more, please, Lara?" Nicola asks as an afterthought. 

Obliging, Lara pulled the strings on my corset and the breath flies out of me. I wobble, grasping the back of the chair next to me.

"Ohh," I sigh as I try to fill my lungs. "That's really tight."

Nicola, my chief Lady-in-Waiting, nods crisply and puts a perfectly manicured finger to her lip. "Look at how skinny you are," she says, pulling the curtain off the full-length mirror in my room.

"Excuse me," I protest. "I had that covered for a reason."

"A lady should not cover her mirrors," Nicola says softly, tossing the curtain at Lara to be put away.

"Right." If you were me, you'd want them covered.

Towering above me and standing behind me, Nicola puts her hands on my cheeks and turns me to face the mirror. Not knowing where else to look, I take in the spectacle that I have become.

Aside from my waist being the size of a dime, I suppose I look pretty good. My white skin contrasts well with the hunter green dress, and the color seems to darken my green eyes and auburn hair. My face looks tight, and I realize it's because Lara did my hair, and she's notorious for hairdos that can last months if you don't take them out. Straight, shiny, and long, my hair is quite easy to work with. It's pulled up atop my head, swirled into an updo— and yet, a few thick strands dangle down my back.

Nicola slowly removes her hands from my face, and I don't turn away. "See?"

I shake my head. "No."

She sighs exasperatedly. "Regardless of how you think you look, you will be meeting all of us at the front gates in approximately—" she pulls out her pocket watch-- "twenty minutes."

"Must I?"

She'd been halfway out the door; at this she turns around and stalks straight at me. "Yes, you must! This invitation has been issued especially for you and your family! Not taking this opportunity would be quite rude and might actually prevent you from future excursions." She stares me down, her cold gray eyes boring into mine. A moment passes, and Nicola pivots on her heel and whisks herself out the door.

Casting me a nervous glance, Lara scurries after her.

I sigh and perch on the edge of my bed. I don't really know what we are to be doing tonight, only that we've received an invitation from someone we don't even know. A mysteriously unsigned invitation.

I shoot my reflection a withering glance and traipse down the huge staircase to where my family and a carriage are waiting patiently.

"Do you have the picnic baskets, Nicola?" my mother questions. My mother is quite beautiful for someone of her age and stature. I think she's always been rather ashamed of always walking in the shadow of her sister, Queen Ariel. The Queen is much more well-to-do, but she never had the same spark of beauty and intelligence as my mother did. Oh, the woes of birthright.

Seeing my mother harried, my father takes this opportunity to brush a perfectly coiffured strand of brown hair out of her face. It's a tender gesture, and it makes my heart ache.

We clamber into the carriage and the doorman shuts the door after us. He almost slams it on my petticoat, and I shoot him a dirty look he can't see.

It's nine o'clock in the morning and the inside of the carriage is already roasting. We won't arrive at our destination until this evening. It's going to be a long ride.

Riding in this luxuriant-but-cramped carriage with my family and Nicola feels worse than having one's bowels pumped. I start trying to count how many times the horse's hooves hit the gravel, but give up once I hit a thousand. I rummage around in my bag and pull out the day's newspaper. Rather than reading it, I use it to fan myself. Putting the heat aside, I am squished and tied into a corset against my will. I can barely breathe, although I've almost become used to it.

My mother sees me trying to adjust the whalebone through my dress and smiles. "Makes you wonder why our ancestors insisted on using spikes as torture devices, don't you think?" It's a good attempt to try and lighten the mood. Ultimately, it fails, but it was a nice gesture.

She's wearing one too, though. Why doesn't she fret the way I do? Have the bones in her stomach just become so mangled and compressed by wearing this excruciatingly painful thing? Do men really find those that wear this more attractive? I've had many suitors come to the house for me, but never in my memory have I worn such an item. I must admit, I once longed for the slender waist of my peers, but I soon overcame that foolish notion.

Seeing few other options, I place the folded newspaper over my eyes and begin to sleep.

* * *

When I awaken, it takes my eyes a moment to readjust to the darkness that has filled the carriage. I'm a little disoriented at first, unaccustomed to not sleeping in a bed and not knowing where I am, but it doesn't take long for the start of my day to come flooding back. I groan and throw the newspaper into my bag. I feel disgusting. I must've been sweating all day long in my sleep. I climb over my father to get next to the carriage's window and stick my head through the red velvet curtain. Ah, the cool night air is such a relief against my sticky face and neck. 

We have long since left my piece of countryside behind and we've just entered the outskirts of what appears to be a very large city. Lit dimly by street lanterns and merchant's oil lamps, I see old-fashioned buildings along the cobblestone road we're on. I've only been here during the day before, but I can tell we're in Paris.

It's excellent weather for early November, not too chilly and not a cloud in the sky. I hold my head out the window a moment longer until my father tugs on my bow, the cool air staining my cheeks pink. The stars shine brilliantly on this evening. The time must not be too late, as the sky to the west is a lighter shade of blue than the blackness above.

"What time is it?" I ask my father.

He pulls out his pocketwatch and angles it in the carriage, trying to get light to hit it. "It looks to be a little after five-thirty, my dear. We're right on schedule."

Schedule? "How much longer do we have to go?"

"Oh, not long. Not much longer at all. We should arrive any moment."

"I do wish someone had let me know where we're going," I say indignantly, crossing my arms against my bodice.

"But it's so much more fun this way," my mother teases.

I see Nicola shifting out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to look at her fully and her eyes snap open, as though she could see my movements through her eyelids. She regards me coolly, her gaze as temperate as the North Pole. I can't withstand it and turn away.

The carriage slows. I move for the door, but my father swings his arm across and blocks my passage. "Don't look yet!" He pulls a bit of fabric from his inner suit pocket and beckons for me to turn around. I oblige and he ties it around my head, covering my eyes. "Is this really necessary?"

"It's only for a moment."

His strong, calloused hands guide me out of the carriage and hold me until I'm steady on my feet. I overcome a small wave of nausea from standing still after rocking in a box all day long. He turns me to the right and stands behind me, hands on my shoulders. "All right." He unties the blindfold and—

I'm dumbfounded. In front of me stands one of the largest and most exquisite buildings I have ever seen. It towers above my head. Two beautiful curved marble staircases encircle a gently sloping ramp. The doors appear to be made of solid gold with handles of ivory. If this is the outside, the inside will kill me.

It's a marvel of modern engineering. Oh, how I love the French.

Father squeezes me shoulder. "Have you gotten to the sign yet, my dear?"

My eyes travel upwards. Indeed, there is a sign. It looks as well done as the rest of the building. Fancy lettering engraved in onyx and coated with white paint, it reads "OPERA POPULAIRE."

They've brought me to see the opera.

* * *

I am almost too timid to stride up the stairs and enter through those marvelous doors, but I find my legs moving toward them anyway. I gravitate to its magnificence. 

The doormen holds open the doors for us as we flash our invitation, and we are through.

The lobby of the grandiose opera house seems to be made of solid gold. The marble floor is tiled in black, red, and white, and there are gold columns supporting an upper balcony. A rounded stairway stems from the middle of the room, getting narrower until it reaches a landing in the middle of the room and then branches upwards to the left and right, leading into the upper decks of the audience.

I've never felt more elegant as I walk the five yards to the base of the stairs. There are a few other couples milling around, each eyeing the new arrivals, summing them up for better or for worse. I hope I pass their test.

"Where are our seats?" I hear mother ask father.

"They're up to the right," he replies. "We're in the, ah, Box Five."

"We have a box?" I ask. "Sounds confining."

Mother laughs. Her laugh is like bells; it fills up the lobby with its warmth. "A box is just a term for a private balcony, love," she tells me. She laughs again, perhaps marveling at my sheltered ignorance.

We ascend the stairs. I pause in the middle of the large landing and stare down at the seal beneath my feet. It's a design of… something; I am whisked away too quickly do get the full effect. But the words in the black band encircling it read "Opera Populaire." How original.

We skirt through the doors and intrude upon another marvelous scene. The front of the opera and the lobby are not even on the same scale as the theatre itself. We are on the second level, so I can gaze down upon the scene quite easily. The large red velvet curtains (trimmed with gold) are drawn as the stage crew prepares for the gala, so there's nothing to see there yet. Velvet spawns the whole of the theatre— red velvet seats, red velvet pads on the golden banisters. The floor below my feet might even be velvet, but I cannot bend to touch it because of this silly outfit I'm constrained in.

On the outside of the pillars that separate each box there are amazing statues of golden, nude women. My gaze lingers a bit too long and I force myself to look away.

We enter box five and an attendant closes the drapes to the entrance behind us. I see workers beginning to douse the candelabras, a sure sign that the show is to begin soon. I go towards our seats, fearful of sitting down. I feel as though the seat shall reject my sitting upon it; I am certainly not worthy enough to be in the presence of such majesty.

"Oh, oh," my mother says, fretting again. "I'm sorry, Nicola, there's only three seats. What a strange arrangement. I hope you do not mind standing?"

"No," she answers coolly. "I am accustomed to waiting; it is my duty."

"Thank you," my mother tells her, sounding quite relieved.

Soon, all the lights except for the stage lights are extinguished and the audience slowly quiets. A man who introduces himself as Monsieur LeFavre, the owner of the Opera Populaire, takes center stage and waits for quiet.

"Tonight's show is quite extraordinary," he says, his voice flowing over the audience like water. "It's the first night of the season, and we have a new star to introduce. Young and straight from Italy, this madmoiselle's name is Carlotta Judichelli."

A polite smattering of applause greets the young woman as she enters from the side. As our box is relatively close to the stage, I can see her face. It's a nice face, but her penciled-in eyebrows arch quite dramatically. As she thanks the crowd, I can tell her accent is quite strong.

"Born and raised in Italy, Carlotta is classically trained and is overjoyed to be a part of Opera Populaire. She's our star soprano tonight, so let's hear it for Carlotta."

My applause is muffled by my long, white gloves. I wonder if she'll mess up.

The two exit the stage and the curtain is pulled back. The show has begun.

* * *

The stage setup is incredible. The wings and background are draped with shiny silk curtains in various shades of blue, giving the impression that you're between the sky and the sea. The stagehands have constructed a massive ship's bow that protrudes from the wings. Carlotta, dressed as a mythological siren, perches on the bowsprit. She's quiet a moment, then begins to sing. 

**_Avvezzo a vivere  
Senza conforto  
Ancornel porto  
Pavanti il mar_**

At first, I am disappointed that the show is in Italian, even though what she sings is quite beautiful. However, after these opening lines she lapses quickly into English. Her accent is still very thick, but she has quite a good voice for the opera, and she projects well.

The story goes on and on about her birth as a siren and growth into a woman as she stretches her legs and walks the plank. Intermission finally arrives, a welcome break for my tired ears. Lights are simultaneously lit around the theatre. My parents and Nicola leave to wander and hopefully come across some wine or a program, but since I've no interest in either I stay behind.

The innards of the theatre empty out fairly quickly. A few couples stay behind, chatting quietly among themselves. Even if I focus on their lips, I cannot make out what they are saying.

I hear humming behind me and jump. I had thought I was alone. The light in our box is quickly winked out. My eyes probe the darkness behind me, and return only faint images of a gleaming white… something.

"Who's there?" I say softly. "Hello?"

I receive no immediate response. After a few heartbeats that I'm sure the new person can hear, he responds in a voice as smooth as silk, "Are you not the Groenewoud girl?"

Who are you to be asking? "Yes, I am. And you are?"

"Perfect." He notices me be taken aback by this, and chuckles softly. "Not me, or my name. I referred to the information you have just given me. Do you have a first name?"

"No, I like to rely solely on my surname. Of course I have a first name," I reply, indignant. I do not even care if I sound patronizing. I do not have enough practice being a lady, it would seem.

"May I have it?"

I stare into the blackness, aiming my gaze at where I'd first seen the glimmering white. Of what use could my name possibly be to this man? "I am Abigail."

"Abigail," he breathes, and the name runs off his tongue, sweet as lilies. "Abigail Groenewoud. Do you have any idea what your name means?"

This question strikes me at random. This conversation continues to grow stranger and stranger as the seconds tick by. "No, I do not."

"Abigail, loosely translated—it's Hebrew, and it means 'father is joy.' Do you and your father have a close relationship?"

"Excuse me sir, but I know next to nothing about you other than the fact that you are sitting here in my box with me, and you expect me to answer such a question?"

He chuckles again. It's a strange sound to hear. "Fair enough. Your last name means young, vigorous, or inexperienced, usually relating to a dweller by the woods."

This is a learned man; there's no way he could've picked this off the top of his brain, unless he already knew who I was and had this conversation prepared. This idea frightens me a bit. He did know my last name. Or he knew which family was seated in this box.

He leans forward a bit into the light, illuminating only the gleaming whiteness I'd glimpsed before—I can see now that it is a mask, one that covers half his face. Due to the thickness of the mask, I cannot see the other half of his face—it's just behind the line of light and shadow. If I didn't know any better, I would say the mask was floating. I can see a vivid, sparkling cerulean iris behind the mask, and wonder who this man is that I'm speaking to.

"Do you know who I am?"

"N-no, Monsieur, I do not. Should I?" The question slips from my throat before I can think about it.

His eyes seem to dance. "No, no, don't be ridiculous. I take it this is your first time in this humble opera?"

"There's nothing humble about it," I mumble, losing control of my tongue yet again. Oops.

This time, bonafide laughter escapes from his lips. He falls back into the shadows as his amusement subsides. "You are quite right, Mademoiselle, quite right." I hear clothing rustle as he stands. He steps forward so that he is illuminated. I take a mental photograph of him so that I am not staring rudely, because he is a magnificent creature. I will reflect on it later.

"The show is ready to begin again. I will expect thanks for the invitation." Before I can formulate a response, he is through the black velvet curtain and gone.

He sent the invitation? But why? And who is he?

I extract my 'photograph'. He is dressed quite well, but doesn't appear too different from any other man in the audience. The only thing that immediately differentiates him from another is the half-mask, of course. There is nothing wrong with his face that I can tell; maybe the mask is just decoration. In fact, the half I can see is simply stunning. Those deep blue eyes hold an icy coolness in them that is quite riveting and I'm sure could entice me for hours on end. He is rather pale, but then again, so am I. If he is accustomed to living indoors then paleness is his fate. Dark-coloured eyebrows accentuate the whiteness, causing it to stand out and make a stirring contrast against the blue of his eyes. He doesn't look much older than I; he's perhaps a few years my senior.

As I am examining him in my mind, my parents and Nicola re-enter the box, clutching wine glasses and chatting merrily. They don't question my silence; they are used to my moodiness. The play begins again in a few more moments, but I cannot seem to focus. My mind is full of him. It takes me a few more minutes of trying to remember his form, but it isn't until I was nearly bowled over by the thought that it takes hold. It isn't his eyes I'm fascinated by: it's his body. Even through the suit you can tell that he is a force to be reckoned with.

Perhaps I am wrong about him being a nobleman. Maybe he's a servant with nice clothing, based on his musculature. One who never goes outdoors. It's feasible, but plausible.

Regardless, I'm willing to bet he and Carlotta have never crossed paths. Not that I think myself her better; oh, how I wish I can sing as she does! But from spending the next hour and a half dissecting our 'conversation', and remembering which of my quips he found amusement in, I can already discern that he and Carlotta are polar opposites. She has probably had a life of pampering in Italy, being constantly praised for her musical prowess. And she's obviously rich; I am certain one could not be the star in such a magnificent opera house on talent alone.

The show ends in a blur of passion. My parents stand to leave, but I find I cannot pry myself from the seat. I tell them I'll be along in a moment. My father shrugs and turns to go, while Nicola casts me yet another dark look. Oh, how I despise new Ladies-in-waiting. But she follows. "Please, Abigail, do hurry up," my mother pleads. "We've a long trip tonight."

* * *

I wait until the theatre has emptied of its occupants. An attendant enters to blow out the candle and seems startled by my presence. 

"Excuse me, miss," he says politely. "Shouldn't you be getting on home?"

"Just a moment," I say. I raise my handkerchief to my eyes and pretend to dab away tears. "It was so beautiful." I sniff to add to the effect.

He takes pity on me. "Alright, mademoiselle, but please try to move on out." He puts out the candle so he doesn't have to come back for it. Now the only lights are on the stage, and an old man slowly walks along the arc, dousing them.

He finishes, and I hold my hand up to my face. I cannot see it. I sigh and pull back the curtain. Light from the lobby floods the box, and I can hear distant laughter. But this hallway is deserted.

I return to my seat to pick up my purse and suddenly there is a flash of light, and then nothing. I can't see him, but I know he's there.

"Why are you still here, Mademoiselle Groenewoud?" he asks, coating his syrupy voice with sugar.

"Actually, Monsieur, I was hoping you would come back." I'm shaking with nerves, but I'm pretty sure he can't see me.

"I wasn't planning on coming until I saw the light up here," he replies flatly.

Oh. "Well, I just wanted to thank you for the invitation," I tell him. "The show was very well done."

This remark causes him to laugh outright. "Well, you're quite welcome, but no it was not. The new girl has horrible technique. She's better than her predecessor, but Monsieur LeFavre seems to have a foreign-accents fetish."

"So you're more partial to the British accents?" He doesn't speak with one himself, and I find that curious. He sounds like he could be American.

"It doesn't matter." The cold has seeped back into his voice.

"Well, I'll just be going then." I grope around for my bag, locate it, and head for the exit. His arm across my collarbone blocks my path.

"Tell your family you ran into an old friend and meet me back here. I can have you home by tomorrow evening."

This request frightens me. Why does he want me to be here overnight? I don't even know his name. "What do you want from me?"

I hear a squeak and a squelch of air as he takes a seat. "You shall come to no harm."

Fine. I doubt my parents will let me stay. But I will ask.

I stride into the bright lobby, blinking as my eyes adjust. My parents await in the carriage outside.

"Hello, mother. Father, I ran into an old friend of mine and she invited me to spend the night with her and her family. Will that be permissible?"

My parents exchange surprised glances. Abigail has friends? Oh my. "Of course you can stay!" my father exclaims. "What a good experience, to spend an evening in the city."

"But please, Abby, be back by tomorrow evening," my mother adds.

"Shall I accompany Miss Abigail?" Nicola asks politely.

"That is an excellent idea as well," my father says. "Now I shan't have to worry about my little girl running unsupervised around Paris." Of course, he pronounces it as Pa-ree.

No! That will ruin everything!

"I'm fine," I say quickly, but Nicola has already exited the carriage.

"Let me go ask my friend if it's okay." I move as fast as the corset will allow, motoring back up the grandiose marble stairs. Nicola traipses easily after me. She's on to my escape plan.

"Selene! Oh, Selene! Where are you?" I call loudly as we circle the balcony in the lobby. "I don't know where she's run off to," I practically yell at Nicola, signaling to the boy that I am not alone. I hope he can hear me and is devising a plan.

"Nicola, can you check those boxes over there for me?" I ask, smiling. My head is spinning. I direct her toward a sign that reads Boxes 25-50. "I'll check these over here." It will be an in-and-out search, so she will know if I suddenly take too long in a box.

As soon as she turns, I dive into Box 5. "Monsieur, she's come with me! There's no way I can escape her." I didn't even know if he was still in there. I wish I knew his name; it's so hard thinking about such a magnificent being as 'him'.

I felt his strong hands grasp my biceps. "It's time to concoct a plan, Mademoiselle." He spins me around and pushes me back through the black velvet, whispering, "Go check boxes six and seven and come back. I'll have come up with something by then."

I nearly stumble from the force of his push, but right myself. I see Nicola emerging from Box 31 across the lobby. I'm running out of time.

I enter Box 6 and really pretend to search for someone. I take my time. I want to give him as much time as possible to come up with a plan. It won't be easy. I exit six and enter seven. Still no luck from Nicola in finding Selene. I can't imagine why.

My excitement gets the best of me and I practically run straight into him upon reentrance. My heart beats rapidly as he pushes me away.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," I say, trying my best to sound demure.

"Think nothing of it. Now, we need to move quickly. There is more than one way out of this box."

I stare into the darkness. There is?

I feel him moving beside me and I hear the burning sound that a rope makes against your palm.

"Wh-what? What is that?"

He grabs my wrist and places the knot of the rope in my hand. I don't know how he manages to see so well in such perfect black.

"She'll have noticed you're not exiting by now," he says calmly. "Hopefully she doesn't know which box you're in."

"No, but she knew which box we watched the show in," I snap.

His pace increases. He gestures for me to climb down. "I'll hold the rope."

"How will you get down?"

"I am not constrained in a corset, my dear," he says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

I shimmy down the rope into a more complete darkness, it seems. When my feet touch the ground, I give a tug on the rope to signal my landing. The bottom of the rope disappears from my grasp as he hauls it upwards. A moment later, he lands beside me, his lithe joints absorbing the shock of the impact. "Ah."

He grabs my wrist again. "Run!"

We run. I'm so scared that we'll crash into a pillar or a statue, but he manages to avoid everything.

A flash of light comes from above. She's in Box 5! "ABIGAIL!" she cries in anguish, assumedly upon viewing the rope.

* * *

We're walking together through a brightly lit hallway. Neither he nor I have spoken since he told me to run. He still has a firm grasp on my wrist. It's beginning to hurt, but I don't mind it as much as I should. 

The candelabras seem to move toward us as we walk, but I push the thought from my mind. It's impossible.

He finally speaks again after we've gone down a series of stairs. He says, "You may call me Erik."

Erik, huh? "Thank you, Monsieur."

He nods briskly.

Erik! Now I can put a name to this exquisite sample of a life form. I'm studying him as he pulls me along. He's so sleek and carries himself so elegantly. He must be a nobleman. Servants are notorious for having horrible posture and back pain.

"Excuse me, Monsieur Erik, but where are we going?"

He casts me a look, leering at me from the uncovered half of his face. "You may look and sound like a lady, but you are not one. A real lady would not ask such a ridiculous question. You will find out our destination in but a moment."

I wish to protest this remark, but I'm learning. I second it instead. "It's true, I have no remote desire to be a typical lady. I cannot envision myself living the type of life my mother does." As an afterthought, I ask, "Do you think that when we get where we're going, you can assist me in the removal of this damned corset?" Rather brash, I know, but he pays me no heed regardless.

We tread silently another few paces. I try again. "Monsieur Erik…"

"Must you women always talk so much?" he asks, his head lolling back. "It's so annoying to speak when one has nothing to say."

I stop walking. "Excuse me, sir, but you speak to me as though you are my better, when you have done nothing to prove it and are certainly not that much older than me!"

He turns to face me, his eyes glittering evilly in the candlelight. "And how old are you, my dear Mademoiselle Abigail?"

"I'll be twenty in January," I answer defiantly.

Erik nods thoughtfully. "Then you are correct in assuming the closeness of our ages. I am twenty-two."

So I was right with my guess. Amazing. More amazing that he actually admitted it.

He turns around and begins walking again at a quicker pace. I run to catch up to him. "I didn't think we were finished speaking," I say. "Why do you treat me like I'm that inferior to you?"

He whips around and clamps his hands onto my shoulders. "Abigail, why are you here?"

I open my mouth, and shut it. Because I love the thrill of doing something I should not be doing. Because I am attracted to him already. Because I am tired of my humdrum life.

"Because you asked me to," I reply meekly.

"Okay. And if you do not wish to be here, do not hesitate to tell me. I will take you back to your Nicola."

"No," I say quickly. "No."

"As you wish." He begins walking again. I follow a few steps behind, not speaking again.

Soon we reach a set of massive wrought-iron doors. Erik reaches down and appears to yank at something, then straightens and pushes the doors. They swing open quite easily. I hesitate before entering.

"Do come in, if you're coming," he says. "If I shut these doors I'm sure you won't be able to open them."

"Are you calling me weak?" I'm sure my eyes flash with anger.

"No," he replies calmly, letting my anger wash over him. "I'm simply acknowledging my strength."

Just how heavy are these doors? I step through.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he says, gesturing with his arm to the world beyond.

* * *

I can't see anything. His home is dark. 

"Uh, Monsieur, is there a method to your madness?" I ask him outright.

He laughs again. I'm beginning to enjoy the sound of his laughter. I push down the desire to make him laugh again.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Groenewoud, my madness is generally quite methodical." He chuckles again and strides into the darkness. I peer after him, losing his shape. My eyes strain for light.

Suddenly, I get my wish. He strikes a match and sets it to what appears to be a river of oil in the cracks in the floor. It bursts into flame and spreads quickly down the river, sending the whole room seemingly ablaze.

"Oh, my," is all I can manage.

'Home' is not a strong enough word; 'haven' would be more apt to describe this place. The ceiling and walls are made of rock, while the floor is set with wide plates of varnished wood. The flames surround one whole row of these panels on each side of the main room, leaving the large middle area free for walking and talking.

The walls are not bare; they are decorated with brilliant tapestries depicting everything from marriage to beheadings. They are sewn with vibrant colors and seem to come alive as I take in each one. My favorite is of a stealthy white tiger, weaving its way through a forest of bamboo.

Erik returns and takes me by the elbow. "Come," he says. "There is much more to see."

He leads me out of the brightly lit room and through a series of dark hallways. He pushes through a straw door. The choice of material amazes me. I would've expected all the doors to be as difficult to manage as the front doors; he can certainly manage them. Perhaps he has guests often and the straw is for their benefit. I've never before met anyone as strong as him.

"This is where you will be staying." He doesn't say anything else before exiting, leaving me along with the room. Is that it? Was I brought here for no reason? With a sigh of frustration, I toss my purse onto the bed. Ooh. It's a water bed. Maybe it won't be so bad, after all.

I collapse onto the bed and close my eyes for a moment as the water ceases its sloshing. I hear the straw rustle as the door swings open and sit bolt upright.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

"Somewhat."

"Is something not satisfactory?" he asks, his eyebrow furrowing in concern.

"Well, Monsieur Erik, I just don't really know why I am here," I tell him. "I assumed it was for some greater purpose than to throw me in an old room for the night."

He deep blue eyes lock on mine and seem to see straight through me. "Very well," he relents. "I'd hoped to save that for later tonight; I'd assumed you'd had a long day and would enjoy a nap."

"Oh, I was asleep in the carriage for most of the way here."

"I'm sorry for assuming, Mademoiselle." He bows. He exits, beckoning me to follow him. He stops in a room just off the hallway and takes off his suit jacket, hanging it on a coat hanger. He continues down the hall.

"You are about to go where no woman has ever been before, Abigail."

"Oh," I say in answer. I hope he's not referring to something sexual.

We continue walking, and the ground slopes beneath my feet. I wonder how deep underground this place is. Lair? Yes. This is definitely a lair.

We enter another room, this one already lit up, but by candlelight. It's another rock room, but the floor is simply covered with elaborate carpets. Some are laden down with fringe or gold thread, and others are threadbare.

An ivory and gold organ sits patiently in the corner, waiting for another chance to be played. If I hadn't known better, I'd say it wagged its tail at the return of its master.

In fact, now that I look around, the organ is not the only musical instrument. There's a string bass leaned up against the organ, the strings polished to perfection. A violin and a viola hang from hooks set into the stone. Huge stacks of paper are stuck everywhere, some balanced precariously. A paper slips from the top of one as we enter and the door shuts behind us. Change in air pressure. I step towards it—it's dotted with musical notes, time signatures, and revisions. Erik is a composer?

"Monsieur Erik, why have you brought me here?" I ask as I sidestep a candelabra. "I cannot even read music."

He casts me a sharp glance. "Really? Now that's a pity. Every human being should be taught music. It's the universal language."

"I thought that was dance."

"Can you dance, Mademoiselle?" He rifles through some papers.

"Of course," I say indignantly, blushing. "Every young woman is taught to dance in school."

"So they do teach you something." He chuckles at his own bravado. "So you can count to four?"

I don't even answer that. Does he think me a simpleton?

He picks up a piece of paper and stares at it, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. He turns to me and sees the look on my face. "Oh, Abigail, I'm sorry. I did not mean to wound your pride. I was just trying to lighten your mood. You seem quite apprehensive."

Hmph.

He steps up to me, taking my right hand in his left and raising it into the air. His hand is warm. His right hand rests gently on my hip. With all that strength, it's amazing how graceful he seems.

I hesitate a moment before putting my free hand on his broad shoulders. I barely touch the fabric of his white silk shirt.

"Follow my lead," he says, his probing blue eyes never leaning mine own green ones. "And never look down. One, two, three, four—-"

I follow his pace as we waltz around the room, listening to the music that exists solely in my head. He isn't that much taller than I, especially when I'm wearing these shoes.

"Can we try something a little more dynamic?" I ask as we spin. "This is so simplistic."

"Sometimes the most beautiful is also the most simple," he says lightly, his eyes scanning my face. "Take the rose as an example."

I know what he means, but I have the strangest idea to show off. To show him what I'm capable of. I want to prove that I'm not a simpleton.

To my surprise, he increases the pace. We waltz like a mad couple around his music room, until I am straining for breath. He stops quickly and asks what is the matter.

"It's this damned corset," I explain. "My lungs can't expand past a certain point."

"I may have something you can wear instead of it." He looks nervous.

"That'll work. But I will need some help getting this corset off."

"Get as far as you can without help," he says. "I will find something suitable for you. I'll meet you in the room I showed you."

I slip out of the dress once safely in the room, and suddenly it's just my corset and my underskirt keeping me from certain mortification. I wrestle around for a minute with the knot that was tied at the bottom of the lacings and finally get it. It loosens immensely almost immediately, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin unthreading, but have to quit when I reach my sweet spot. My arms simply won't bend far enough. Perhaps they might, were I not wearing a corset…

I hear a light rap on the straw door. "Are you decent?"

I blush. For now. "Yes, Monsieur."

He enters. I see his eyes linger on the discarded dress. What is he thinking about?

His deft hands quickly undo the last few rows and pulled out the ribbon, reaching around and handing it to me. I pressed the corset to my front to keep it from falling off. "Thank you, Monsieur."

He sighs as I turn around, and he hands me the pants and shirt. "Must we continue this mister and missus business? It's all rather tedious; I'd much prefer it if you could call me Erik."

"Okay." Erik. It's been how I've been thinking of him in my mind, anyway. It's a relief to not have to catch my words halfway out of my mouth.

He exits, and I toss the whalebone onto the bed and slip on the shirt he gave me. The maroon shirt is rather oversized, but it's silky and comfortable. The pants are made of the same material, only in black.

I pad back down the long hallway and find Erik in the music room again. This time he is seated at the organ, pounding away. The instruments on the wall reverb with the sound.

He seems to sense my presence as I enter the room, and immediately ceases. He practically leaps from the bench. "Are those clothes all right?"

"Why so jumpy?" I ask, taking a step backwards. "Yes, they're fine."

"Sorry, Abigail." He paces back and forth in front of me. "Do you wish to continue to dance or do you want to learn music?"

"The night is young. There's plenty of time for both."

* * *

We dance. We tango, we swing. If it's danceable, then we do it. 

Indeed, the night is long. Once this initial blur of passion and prowess has finished, I steal a glance at Erik's pocketwatch. It's only half-past eleven.

He bows to me, signaling that our dance has indeed ended. I curtsy. It's difficult to imagine what I look like in his clothes. Do I look like a tiny girl floundering in a man's clothes? Or do I look like the young woman I am, playing someone else's role?

"Ready to enter my world?" he asks. He steers me over to the organ and sits me down in the center of the bench. He stands behind me, one hand resting lightly on my right shoulder. "Okay, the learning has commenced. Find me middle C." I crane my head around and give him a look. "Here's your only hint: it's in the middle."

I try to gauge the distance from either end of the organ and make my choice. A wondrous sound reverberates in the massive pipes. "Was that right?"

"Actually, yes." He lifts my finger off the ivory key and the sound stops. "Most scales are rather easy to figure out—you go up, and then you go down." He positions my right hand again, with my thumb on the note I'd learned to be middle C. "A scale has eight notes. Play me a C major scale."

I slowly move my hand along until I hit the key that looks remarkably like middle C.

"That is a C above the staff, and you win." Now he puts my thumb on the key to the right of middle C. "This is a D. Play me a D major scale."

I try to do what I did before, but when I hit the third note, something sounds horribly wrong. Erik winces. "Sorry."

"Do not apologize," he says. "That's exactly what I was hoping you'd do. See, you need to press the black key… there. Now try." Now the scale sounds perfect.

"So all the keys are needed at different times?"

"Yes."

"What are the rest of their names?"

He rattles them off-- C, D, E, F, G, A, B, and then back to C.

We spend the next couple of hours learning all the scales, all the notes, when they need to be added into a scale. He stops me every few minutes to correct the way I hold my hand. After a while, he adds my left hand in. My left and my right are playing the exact same things, but it's definitely more difficult. I need better motor control.

It is an exhausted me that slips into the satin covers on the waterbed at quarter to four in the morning. I think I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

* * *

This is the second time I've awakened and I don't know where I am. But this time, I hear music, so my mind returns me to the present almost instantly. I'd been dreaming of… him. What else could I possibly be dreaming of? I invented scenarios of what he was hiding underneath his mask. I dreamt of those cold, clear, piercing blue eyes. I dreamt of what those muscles were truly capable of. What they could do to me. In good ways, and bad. 

As I relive those moments, I find myself wondering about the time. Since we're so deep underground, I have no way of telling if it's light outside or not. I don't want to get out of the waterbed, but if it's morning, then I'd better be getting ready to go.

I don't want to go home.

As if on cue, Erik knocks on the straw door. "Are you decent?" It's the second time he's asked me those words. What if I said I was and I wasn't?

"Yes. I just woke up."

He enters. "The carriage will be along shortly to take you home," he says, glancing at his pocket watch. "It's six; you've only been asleep a few hours."

"I feel quite well rested."

"That's good. Now, I can take you as far as the lower levels of the opera house. But at the risk of having this place discovered, that's as far as I can go."

I stare at the ground, not meeting his eyes.

I hear him take a step closer to me. "What's wrong, Abigail?"

Hearing my name pass through his lips send a wave of nausea through me. Oh, how I wish to stay here forever and ever! "I don't want to go home, Erik."

He tips my chin up and stares at me until I look him in the eyes. His mask seems shinier than it did last night, if that's possible. "You must."

"But why?"

"Because even though it was indirect, I made a promise to your parents that I would have you home by this evening." My face falls. "Do not worry, Mademoiselle." He resorts to our formal titles. "I will be in touch."

* * *

I arrive home early in the evening, tired and lonely. It'd been an awkward good-bye back at the opera house. I wonder if I'll ever see him again. 

I push on the gleaming gold handles of my house door and nothing happens, so I do something I rarely have to use—the knocker.

It is huge. Also golden and highly polished, it bears no fingerprints. It bears a pretty generic design. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach it. The sound it makes echoes off the mansions around us.

The thought never occurs to me that they aren't home.

Nicola swings open the door, a wicked twinkle in her brown cesspool eyes. "Good of you to be home on time, Miss Abby," she says, playing her part. I brush past her and step in, and as I'm about to ascend the stairs, she leans close to me and hisses, "I haven't ratted out your disappearance yet. Don't make me have to."

Translated loosely, that means I owe her one. I'll have to watch where I tread from here on out. The slightest trip-up and she'll have my head on a silver platter.

I continue my way up the stairs. I hope she hadn't noticed my pause.

Really, I want to slap her. No one invited her, and now she has one up on me. She invited herself along. I would devise a plan to get her fired, but she could get me in trouble. If somehow she knows that not only was I not at Selene's house (I really couldn't have been there anyway, she doesn't exist), but that I was with a man, my parents will have my head.

Worse yet, I'll never get to see Erik again.

Watch your back, Abigail Groenewoud.

* * *

Once in my room, I flop down face-first onto my bed. The room I've known and loved since I was a child, although it has been redecorated a few times since then. My down comforter, huge pillows, and of course, my trusty stuffed leopard. 

Needless to say, I sleep well.

It feels like I've been away forever. I find myself gazing around my haven, seemingly taking in things I've never noticed before. The way my drawn curtains cast colorful shadows on my floor as the setting sun shines through them. The way the trees on the river bend towards the water, as though they think they can drink it up through their fronds.

It must be the music.

How can it be that one night can change your life so dramatically? In ways you never thought you could change? Yesterday, I was a drone, floating along, going wherever the wind pushed me.

Now, now… I see things. It's only been a day, and yet… it's magic. The music flows through my very heart and soul. I want to become the music. I want the music. I want…

Him.

Of course, he probably seduces every young maiden that wanders into the opera house and teaches them music. He probably gets farther than them than with me, too. In areas that do not relate to music. Well, the music of the night. But I shall not go there.

I wish I could see him again.

I close my eyes, and again, I dream of him. Only of him.

* * *

_What!_

I shoot bolt upright in my bed, eyes wide open. My sheets are tangled 'round my body and I'm in a cold sweat. I toss off my slightly-damp sheets and dash to the window.

There's nothing there. The window is open and a slight breeze wisps through them, hitting my wet skin and making me shiver. The moonlight makes the river shine and dance. Maybe I dreamed it. I hope I dreamed it.

I sit in the window seat and lean back, resting my arm against my forehead and try to slow my heart down. The dream is already fading, the fright wearing off. I don't even remember what it was that made me so scared. Only that it was horrible.

I do remember I was still dreaming of Erik and his music when it happened.

I'm not going back to sleep now. I tiptoe downstairs, avoiding the place in the stairs where it always creaks. We have a piano, but I've never touched it. My mom used to play, but when I was little, I asked her why she quit. She said it aggravated her. I didn't know what that meant then but assumed it was bad, so I didn't push the subject.

Now I'm going to reawaken the great beast.

For all its non-usage, my mother still keeps it in excellent shape. She has it tuned every year and the wood doesn't have a speck of dust on it. I lift the key cover and slide it backwards into the piano. I pull out the bench to what I think is an appropriate distance and take a seat. The cover is soft and squishy against my bottom. An interesting feeling, let me assure you.

For a few moments I simply stare at the ivory keys that not two days ago had been such strangers. They're a pearly white, the kind that scream they've never been used. Erik's keys were yellowed and worn, but the music that came from the pipes was pure magic. That just goes to show that looks can be deceiving.

What is this song running through my head? I've never heard it before. Did I make it up?

I rewind to what I perceive to be the first note and hit a note on the piano. No, no, not that one. I move my fingers along the scale until I find it, and the rest comes from there.

A simple melody. Almost like a lullaby. Words... what words would match this? They come rather easily. I'm flowing, the music is flowing…

I can't sing. I stop abruptly, realizing that the noise will surely wake my parents. Or Nicola. That would not be good.

"Why'd you stop?"

I know that voice.

I whirl around on the seat, my eyes scanning the darkness. Erik steps into the range of the yellow light cast by the candle I lit on top of the piano so I can see the keys.

"What are you doing here?" I breathe. "How did you find me?"

He shrugs. He's barely in the light, and his body blends into the background, all except for his mask and lapel, which glow a yellowish-white. "I left a few hours after you did. I didn't rush my journey."

"So you could arrive here in the middle of the night?"

He nods. "Why did you stop? They can't hear you."

"Of course they can! Do you know how loud this thing is?"

"No, that's not what I meant. Don't worry about it. Just know that they can't."

My eyes narrow. I want desperately to know what he did, but already I know better than to ask.

"Okay." I spin back around. "But all I have is the music. I mean, I have words, too, but..."

"You were singing earlier, too. Just sing them for me."

No. I'm too ashamed to. He already heard me singing, oh God.

"You have a nice voice," Erik went on. "Untrained, but nice. Sweet and lyrical."

Oh. I guess it's alright then.

It begins with a few short notes, a simple run of chords. "Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness wakes and stirs imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses, helpless to resist the notes I write... for I compose the music of the night."

I continue quietly at first, but then my voice grows stronger as my heart empties the music into the air.

At the end of the second verse, it strikes me that Erik's still standing behind me. I don't think he's moved. My fingers rest lightly on the keys as I think. I turn.

"Well?"

He seems shell-shocked. His hands are behind his back and he stands with his feet apart, almost a military pose. It's a horrible moment before he speaks, a moment in which a thousand versions of "I hate it" run through my mind.

"It's brilliant," Erik says quietly. "Beautiful. It's almost as though you pulled it straight from my soul." He steps closer now, and I can finally see more of him. "You should really write this down."

"The music or the words?" The music will take forever.

"The words. I will sing, and you can play."

"I can do that now," I say slowly. "It won't take long."

I step up, over to my father's workbench and slide a piece of yellowed paper out of a drawer. I dab his quill into his ink bottle and begin to write.

**_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation  
Darkness wakes and stirs imagination  
Silently the senses abandon their defenses  
Helpless to resist the notes I write  
For I compose the music of the night_**

**_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor  
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender  
Hearing is believing, music is deceiving  
Hard as lightning, soft as candlelight  
Dare you trust the music of the night?_**

**_Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth  
And the truth isn't what you want to see  
In the dark it is easy to pretend  
That the truth is what it ought to be_**

**_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you  
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you  
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind  
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight  
The darkness of the music of the night_**

**_Close your eyes, start a journey to a strange, new world  
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before  
Close your eyes and let music set you free  
Only then can you belong to me_**

**_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication  
Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation  
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in  
To the power of the music that I write  
The power of the music of the night_**

The words ended there.

I hope he won't be able to see right through it. My quill pauses above the last word, unsure of whether to put it back or set the whole thing aflame. As soon as he reads it, he'll know it contains the truth of my utmost desire. He'll run screaming from my house or toss it into the flames himself.

With a barely audible sigh, I stick the quill back into the inkwell and spin to present him with the paper. To my surprise, he's _right_ behind me, almost as though he was reading over my shoulder as I wrote. Maybe he was.

"Thank you." He spins on his heel and heads back to the piano. I just watch for a moment. So graceful and so lithe. Amazing. "Okay, what I want you to do is play it and sing the first few lines, and I'll join you whenever I think I've got it."

I'm still sitting there. He turns. "Is that all right?" His eyes lock onto mine, which is amazing, because mine had been wandering. Probably not where they should've been wandering.

"Oh, right. Of course."

I stride back to the piano. The paper rests above the keys where normal sheet music would rest. I marvel at my penmanship-- as shaky as I am right now, it came out remarkably well. Erik's hand rests lightly on my shoulder, presumably as close as he wants to be, yet still be able to see the lyrics.

I play the intro and begin to sing. I've barely gotten to the third line when he joins me, his heavenly voice outdoing mine. I cease and concentrate on hitting the right notes.

We're close to the end of the song and I'm afraid I'll crumble to pieces and be forever lost under the piano. His voice can slice steel and melt butter.

He sings his last note and I go to play the last few lines, but he continues singing— something I hadn't written down. "You alone can make my song take flight... help me make the music of the night." I gaze up at him as I finish. There's the barest hint of a smile on his face.

* * *

"I can help you escape," he says as his outstretched palm comes into view. 

"Oh, would you?" I say. I'm breathless, entranced.

My hand slips into his, with a grace and comfort I didn't think possible.

And then the sun is streaming through my window again. I sit up in bed and rub the sleep out of my eyes. "Ugh. These dreams are _bleak._"

Was it all a dream? Did last night really happen? Did _any of it_ happen?

I leap out of bed, still in my nightgown, and dash down the stairs. The piano looks the same as it always did. My father's quill looks undisturbed.

I sink to the piano bench and, crossing my arms, rest my head on the music stand.

The bench cushion still feels squishy under my butt. That feeling is unmistakable. I definitely sat here. I get up and lift the cover from the seat, where I knew my mom used to keep all kinds of sheet music.

There.

It looks like it was just tossed in, but the lyrics to "The Music of the Night" are right there in front of me. I hug the paper to my chest. It shall serve to remind me that Erik is real.

"What's that?" Nicola asks, coming in through the sliding glass door from the servant's quarters.

I jump. "Oh, this? It's nothing." I slide it around, behind my back.

She cocks an eyebrow at me. "Oh, that much I'm sure of." She steps closer to me.

"Back away, woman!" I say loudly, as I stick my free hand out in front of me, palm out. Nicola looks appalled.

"Excuse me, little girl?" she hisses, stepping towards me again. Her eyes hold the fires of hell. "I don't think you really understand how things are to run around here. You may be the daughter, but I am the one your parents hired for you. For you! I am to dress you, school you, learn you in the ways of the world. First example!" She grasps my wrist with an icy hand. "A woman never, ever raises her hand to another woman. You are being quite unladylike!"

"I don't care about being ladylike!" With all the spit I can muster, I aim for her face.

My wrist is dropped instantaneously and I break for the stairs. "You are mine, Abigail! I will find you and hunt you down!"

I take the spiral staircase two steps at a time. I run down the hall the short distance and into my room, slamming the door behind me. I fumble around in the draws of my mahogany-stained desk for the key and shove it in the lock, twisting as I hear Nicola storming down the hallway. I lean against the door, bracing it.

She pounds on the door for a few moments. I say nothing, do nothing. I barely breathe. Will she pound down the door?

Dimly, I hear more footsteps. Finally! Someone else has arrived to investigate the skirmish.

"What on earth is going on here?" my father asks. The pounding ceases instantly. "Oh, heh, Abigail and I were just playing a friendly game of hide and seek!"

"I see."

"And she cheated, you see. Bedrooms with locks are off-limits."

I had been wondering how she would get out of this one.

I hear my father's hearty laughter and know I need to get out of here.

I dredge my suitcase up from under my bed and fling it open. I start tossing all kinds of stuff in it, angrily, not even caring what goes in and what stays out.

I open my closet doors and am instantly sobered, not to mention thunderstruck.

Right there in front of me hangs a floor-length coat. My first realization is that, hey, this isn't mine. My second is that it is absolutely gorgeous. I reach out to pet it, and it's made of the thickest, softest faux white tiger fur I have ever felt. I've forgotten all about Nicola and my father.

I begin to slide it off the hanger to feel its warmth around me, but a flash of yellow catches my eye. It's a note.

_Dearest Abigail,_

_This coat is a gift in exchange for The Music of the Night, however literally you would like to take that. No harm shall ever come to you while you are wearing it. If you are in danger, I will find you._

_Sincerely, Erik_

His handwriting is looping and swirly, and I find myself re-reading it three times to take it all in. This magnificent coat is from him! If it was an amazing gift before, it is now doubled its intrinsic value.

I want to put it on just to have him come to my rescue, but I am not in need of rescuing right now. I go back to my suitcase and stare into the mess, and organize it into what's necessary and what can stay behind. The coat goes in last, because it's the largest. Especially when folded, due to its thickness. The suitcase barely closes.

I press my ear to the keyhole before unlocking it, and then look through it. Don't hear or see anyone. A double affirmation is the best kind.

I step lightly to keep my heels from clicking on the stairs… down the hallway, out the door, and ahh! The sweet taste of freedom! The wind on my face! The sun warming my skin!

I have nowhere to go, and it's a long walk to the Opera Garnier.

* * *

It feels like I've been walking for hours. Every so often, I turn around to make sure no one's following me. I don't know what I would do if they were, because they would be in a carriage and I am simply on foot. 

It must be around noon, judging from the sun's position, and I turn around and am greeted with a dot of a carriage on the horizon. My mind is blown into panic. I pray wickedly it's not someone I know, and I also pray they're not raving murderers. I feel the urge to throw on the cloak, just in case, but I don't want it to be ripped from my body and sold cheap.

I quickly bend down to the gravel, pick some up and attempt to rub the dirt into my skin. My house is the only one around here for miles, and if they're strangers, they'll assume that's where I've come from. Best make it look like I've been on the road for days.

My dress is a little too white, though. Dress. No, this is not a dress. In all the commotion, I completely forgot to change. Oh, Lord.

I just get down and roll around in the dirt for a moment. The carriage draws ever closer. I stand, pick up my suitcase again, and continue walking merrily along my way. As I sneak another peek over my shoulder, I realize that the carriage is not racing. The horses are merely trotting along serenely, enjoying the nice summer's day. It's actually quite steamy at this level, but the horses are moving quickly enough that they're probably getting a nice breeze.

They draw nearer still. I can see the horses clearly now, and don't recognize either of them. One's brown with white stocking feet, and the other is a pasty shade of white. This calms my heart rate to almost normal proportions.

As they draw into such range that I'm sure they've spotted me, I hear a distinctly male voice say, "Oh, George, please do stop!"

The man holding the reins (presumed to be George) pulls up, and with a whinny, the horses slow to a walk and eventually stop.

A man dressed in a tux, bowler hat and all, leaps jubilantly from the carriage and proceeds with a gallant, swooping bow. "Hello!" he says. "Who are you, young lass?"

I nearly swallow my tongue from trying not to burst out in laughter. "My name is Elisabeth."

"Elisabeth! My good dear, you look like you've had quite the run-around! Was there anywhere specific you were heading?"

Ah. He thinks I'm a hitchhiker. "Well, yes, actually, I was headed for Paris."

He chuckles good-naturedly. "My, that _is_ a long walk! Well, unfortunately, I am not going as far as Paris, but I can take you to the train station! Do you have applicable fare for a train ride?"

"I think I have enough that I can manage," I say evenly. I have no idea how much a train ride costs, but if I don't have enough, I'll wear the cloak and step onto the tracks in front of a train.

Or not. It'd probably be wisest not to go looking for trouble.

"Well, if you're satisfied, go ahead and hop on in!" He gestures to the open carriage door, and I feel a twinge of fear. But the coachman laughs. "Picking up yet another stowaway, eh, Robert?"

"You know how I do love the little ones!" Robert says, squeezing out a fat wink at George.

A lacy handkerchief flutters from inside the carriage. "Robert, dear, do hurry up, we've got a long road ahead of us!"

Oh. That's more comforting. I hope his whole family doesn't speak in exclamatory statements.

I clamber into the carriage and he follows suit. George generously tosses my suitcase atop the carriage. He and his wife sit on one side, I on the other. I feel like an item on display in a museum, and as eyes wander, I realize just how thin the material of my nightgown is and just what they would be able to see through it.

It makes me desperately want to pull my coat over me, but it's dreadfully hot in the carriage and I fear I would smolder and die.

"So what are you doing out this far?" his wife asks. She has a fairly large nose and a huge mass of hair piled atop her head, and before long I've began thinking of her as a parrot.

"There was a horrible dust storm went through a few days ago, and my family and I were on our way home. We got separated, and I guess they searched for a while and gave up hope. I'm on my way to go find them in Paris right now."

"What a terrible story," she murmurs, sounding like she could truly care less. I was rather proud of myself for concocting such a believable story on such short notice.

We sit in silence the rest of the way. I think I manage to doze off, but try not to. I don't want to appear rude. After a few more mind-numbing hours, I am greeted with the too-loud shriek of a train whistle. I almost jump out of the carriage.

"Well, I thank you, Robert and George, for your generous aid in my journey," I say as George hands me my suitcase. "I'll be on my way now!"

I slip through a turnstile and head for the ticket booth. A nice-looking young man sits there, looking quite bored and as uncomfortable as one could be in his uniform. He doesn't notice me approach, so I ding the bell that sits on the desk.

He nearly jumps out of his skin. "Bonjour! Accueillir à la gare de Lyon!"

I blink. I may live in France, but it certainly does not mean I have a complete grasp of the language. And I haven't lived here very long.

"M'excuser," I manage. "Parlez-vous l'anglais?"

"Oui." He smiles. "Welcome to the train station of Lyon. What can I do for you, miss?"

"How much is a ticket to Paris?"

"250 Francs, my dear."

My face must've contorted into something wicked, because he gave me a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry, I know the rates are running a bit high these days. I may be able to get you a cheaper ride to somewhere outside of Paris; how far into the city were you planning on going?"

"The Opera Garnier."

"Ah, that's on the Northern edge. I can send you to Montmartre." He points at a map behind him. "It'd be a little bit of a walk to the Opera, but it's much more manageable than from here."

"Thank you," I say. "And how much shall that cost me?"

He writes down some figures on a piece of paper and gives me a wonderful number: "28 Francs."

I shell out the money and he hands me a printed ticket. "Your train should be here in approximately fifteen minutes." He affirms this with a glance at his pocketwatch. I don't miss the glance he gives me as I gather me things, either. He sees exactly what Robert and his wife saw back in the carriage. I feel disgusting.

I take a seat on a bench and finally get the chance to pull out a blouse from my suitcase. I must not've been paying too close attention to what I packed, because this is a blouse I rarely pull from my closet. It's too small. But it's thick enough to hide what should not be seen, and as I button it up I ignore the difficulty of this action and how my breasts strain against the fabric. A few more days like this and I shan't have a problem. I'll be malnourished.

It really isn't that long before a train swoops up, hissing steam and chugging thick black smoke out of its head. It slowly chugs to a stop. I look around and discover I'm not the only one standing, waiting to get on. I stroll down the length of the train to the end car. Another young man stands at the door, punching my ticket as I step up. My car is empty. The light shines through in a most disconcerting way, rebounding off everything that is shiny.

Our ticket collector makes his speech: "Next stop, Macon. The stop after that will be Moret, just outside Paris. Then Paris, and our final run on this route will be Montmartre. We shall arrive in Paris in approximately one hour and fifteen minutes."

I lean back and wait for us to arrive.

* * *

"Montmartre Station!" 

I blink. I gather my things and step off the train car with a quick "Thank you" to the ticket collector. He nods.

I step up to the ticket booth in Mountmartre where a middle-aged lady sits. "Excuse me, do you know how long it will take to walk to the Opera Garnier?"

She stares blankly before replying. "Dun rightly know." She has no teeth, so it comes out as more of a "Bum rightbe bow."

I back away. "I'll just be on my way, then," I say as way of a polite exit, and head south.

It's a long walk, but with the sun just beginning to set and the lights of Paris set aglow, I have my eyes on the prize. It's not long before the dirt and grass on the sides of the road turn into suburban bungalows, followed by merchant carts and bigger and bigger buildings. And more people! Oh, night life in Paris must be a wonderful experience.

And now, it's all mine. They'll never be able to find me here.

Finally stopping my brisk walk in front of the Opera Garnier, I look up at it, and with a slight smile, speak. No one hears it; my words are washed away by the wind.

"I am free."

* * *

I stand in front of the opera house and gaze once more, in awe of its magnificence. There isn't a gala tonight, apparently, so the theatre is open to public exploration. 

It's not until I'm standing alone in the foyer that I hear the guttural rumblings of my stomach, and I realize I haven't had a morsel of food all day.

I suddenly feel foolish for coming all this way and expecting Erik to be waiting for me. How could he have known I was going to be coming? Even if he had known, he wouldn't have expected me this soon.

I still have a few Francs on me so I turn around and plunge deeper into Paris in search of food. I'm confident enough in my directional abilities not to worry about finding my way back.

I stop at a deli along a busy street and manage to get across to the French-speaking merchant that I want a turkey sandwich (no turkey-imitation-gobbling was required). I wince as he slathers on mayonnaise. Most of that will be coming off, I amend.

I find an empty bench just outside and take it over, using my suitcase as a table by setting it on the bench next to me. The sandwich is quite delicious. A cold wind whistles through the streets and between the tall buildings, but if feels refreshing after such a hot day.

A man comes along pushing a frozen yogurt cart, and I buy some of the twisty, melty flavor from him. It tastes _so_ good. Soon enough, however, the cold seeps into my bones and I am shivering. I should head back to the opera house, but... I don't want to look like the fool I am.

I'm sitting, contemplating, when a pudgy man (presumably in his thirties) sits down next to me. Close. Too close. I shiver and inch away from his massive girth.

He scoots closer.

"Hey, honey, you look cold," he says to me, his voice dripping with what, after hearing Erik's voice, is comparable to rotting tomatoes. "I can warm you up."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Ah! I've got a little British broad on my hands," he says, leering at me. "Do you think you're too good for a French man like me?"

Scowling, I stand, gripping my suitcase firmly. "I think _everyone's_ too good for you."

With an angry roar, he leaps for me. In the Parisian night, skirmishes like this are commonplace-- no one takes note of my yells.

He drags me to a dark, wet alley. He tosses me and my suitcase into a soggy heap against a dumpster. "Put on something more... suitable." He grins wickedly and turns away.

Now's my chance. Making sure to cause a lot of rustling and zipping sounds, I put on the cloak over my clothes. I wait another few moments and zip up my suitcase.

"Hurry up, will ya?" the man growls from around the dumpster.

I step out. His eyes grow wide. "Nice cloak. I think I'll keep that once we're through!"

Out of nowhere, a tall man in a dark cape comes swooping down. He lands atop my pursuer, who is now down and out for the count. Nevertheless, Erik pulls a lasso out of his lapel and strangles the man, kicking him once to make sure the job is done.

"Rapists do not deserve any kind of life," Erik says, stepping towards me.

"That was fast."

He shrugs. "I was in the neighborhood."

* * *

He places his hands on my shoulders and gazes deep into my eyes. I can see myself reflected in the black part of his deep blue eyes, and wonder what he's thinking. "You're all right." 

It's not really a question, but I nod my head anyway.

"Okay." With a swirl of his cape, he's turned around and is walking briskly in the direction of the opera house.

"Hey, hey, wait!" I call, jogging to catch up with him. "Aren't you even going to ask me why I'm here?"

He raises his eyebrow at me. "Why would I ask when I already know? I can't say I approve."

I stop in my tracks. "B-but..."

"First of all, I was not prepared for your visit. Second of all, I would've wished you contact me first so we could arrange transport. I could've gotten you here for free, and had you fed and warmed by the hearth by now."

Thanks for mentioning that in your note. I open my mouth to tell him about the events of the morning, but he continues first.

"Another good reason for having arranged transport is that I could ensure you would be safe. If you'd been farther away and met such a man, I would not have been able to arrive as quickly. The deed may have already been done."

"Then what good is the cloak?" Furious, I whip it off my body and cast it at him. He catches it, his eyes flashing. But my body, me in my pants and tight-fitting blouse, are exposed. He gives me a once-over, eyes lingering on my chest, before tearing his eyes away. He tosses me back the cloak.

"Put it on," he instructs. "If the people of Paris see you at night dressed in a man's clothing, you'll be as good as meat."

I shrug back into the cloak and Erik begins to walk again. I follow him closely through the damp streets of Paris.

* * *

When we reach the grounds of the Opera Populaire, he turns to face me and ties a blindfold around my head. "Erik, why? I've already been there." 

"This much is true. However, people have been known to change their minds about other people. Should you want to run screaming from the opera house and turn me in, I'd prefer you not know this entry route. The other is fine, it's so barricaded with booby-traps that no one could reach my lair without me as a guide."

"Why would I run away? I came here, remember?" I snip. We're walking, but I do not know the path—my footsteps are cautious, my grip on his hand is tight. I can only envision our destination.

"This arises the question of why you came. Care to share?"

I was going to, but now I'm feeling rather resentful. But I spill anyway. "Nicola."

"A one word answer?"

"I think it will suffice."

He says nothing more until I'm released from my blindness. We're inside his lair, as he called it. The only light in this room comes from the fireplace. He gestures to it. "Please, have a seat."

Wrapping my cloak around me, tighter, I take a seat on the fine leather couch.

* * *

I gaze around the room, entranced once more, amazed that I'm back so soon. I've been contemplating the day's events and I still can't believe my nerve. Now, here, cozy by the fire and with him, I feel so weak powerless compared to the consuming strength of earlier. 

Erik returns from a room off yonder, cradling a steaming mug of something brown. I expect it to be coffee, but when he passes it to me and I press it to my lips, I taste cocoa. Yum.

"Thank you," I murmur to him, keeping my eyes on his as I blow on the cocoa to cool it.

He only allows a nod in response. He strides over to a chair about a yard away from me and sits. Our eyes still locked, his leg jiggles in a nervous manner. I sip my cocoa silently.

This standoff goes on for a few more minutes until I lower the mug to my lap and say, "Can I help you?"

"Yes. Thank you for asking." He bounds out of his chair and heads through a door. I've been here enough now to realize he's headed for the music room. I narrow my eyes at his back and plop the mug onto a rich redwood side table. I traipse through the stone halls, ignoring the brilliantly woven tapestries that had fascinated me only a few days earlier.

"What do you need, sir?" I ask upon entering the room and eyeing him at the organ. He catches my insubordinate sarcasm and casts me a glance, one eyebrow raised. His cerulean-blue eyes seem to look right through me, and I physically cross my arms over my chest as though to keep my innermost desires safe.

"We need to perfect our song," he says, an icy tone entering his voice that sends chills down my spine.

_Our_ song. Not _my_ song, not _your_ song. My first feeling is one of insult, that he's tried to take share of it, but then I feel flooded with warmth. He's willingly attached himself to me.

"What's wrong with it?" I ask quietly, stepping closer to him at the organ, the tense moment from earlier already forgotten.

"We just need to change a few chords, add a few notes," he replies. "Tweak it so that it's _just_ right." He keeps his eyes on the cold, ivory keys. "You did bring the lyrics, right?"

I nod meekly and realize he can't see my gestures; he's still facing the organ. I reach into a deep pocket in my cloak and withdraw the parchment. I'd put it there instead of in my suitcase because to me, the music is worth as much as gold.

I prop the paper on the music stand. "There."

He hums a note—the beginning note. "Does that sound about right?" I recognize it to be an F.

"Sure." What do I know about music?

He adds two notes and forms a chord. He takes the top finger off, leaving a D and an F ringing through the pipes. Then he moves it down an octave. "Does that sound better?"

I shrug.

"Do you have any idea what I'm trying to do?" he asks, turning to me now and smiling ruefully. The smile lights up the half of his face that I can see.

"Not exactly."

With ease, Erik shifts the bench to the left and scoots to the right-hand side so he can still be centered at the keys. He pats the left side of the bench. "Come."

I sit.

"Just by moving my hand up or down slightly, I can decide whether the song will sound happy or sad," he explains. He moves his hands to the center and his fingers alight on what I recognize to be middle C. He also presses down E and G. Then he moves his middle finger to the left, hitting a black key—Eb. The chord has instantly changed.

"Oh," I say with a start. "Now I understand."

"Good. The first chord was major, and the second was minor. Which sounded sad?"

"The minor chord."

"Good, good." He sounds pleased. His left blue eye, the one that I can see, is twinkling. Suddenly his fingers take off, playing chords I didn't even know existed, but that somehow I am responsible for. Brilliant sounds blast through the pipes and shake the string instruments on the wall. He's playing my song.

Our song.

He holds the last chord, a Db chord, for a few long moments, his eyes closed in some sort of private ecstasy. He lets go finally and the sound dissipates.

"Ah," he sighs, "that hit the mark."

"What were you aiming for?" I ask. "Major or minor?"

"Neither in particular," he admits. "Just dark."

"Well, it was beautiful," I affirm. I long to lean my head on his shoulder, or take his hand, but I can't. This close proximity alone is nearly killing me. To actually touch Erik is almost unimaginable.

Almost, but not quite.

"I want to turn this into an orchestral piece," Erik muses softly, almost to himself. He turns to me. Our eyes lock again. I feel a shiver from my head to my toes and I can only hope he doesn't notice. "Would you like to play the piano for me in this arrangement?"

"Would I ever!"

He grabs a stack of blank note paper off a stack of parchment and begins writing furiously. Ten minutes pass and he hasn't said a word. I slip off the bench. Erik doesn't seem to notice, so I decide to wander a bit on my own. Or maybe he's decided to give me a bit of leeway. I'm most likely going to be here a while anyway.

Most of the rooms in the lair are the same. The walls are stone, the floors have a few rugs tossed about here or there, and they're fairly drafty. None have beds except for the room I'm staying in and one other. I know it's not Erik's room; it looks like it's never been used. A round mirror with elaborate framing sits precariously on the wall across from the foot of the bed.

Exiting that room, I turn down a particularly dark hallway. I let the fingers of my right hand trail along the wall, feeling each bump, each crevice. The rock is smooth and cool.

At the end, a small candelabrum shines light onto a huge iron door that reveals a complex locking mechanism. I press gently on the door. I expect it to be as heavy as the ones at the front of the lair, but to my surprise, it gives way easily. It wasn't even locked.

"Abigail!" I hear Erik yelling. "Abigail Groenewoud!"


End file.
